


Comfort

by temporalgambit



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 22:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9570404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalgambit/pseuds/temporalgambit
Summary: Shiro isn't feeling well; Pidge is a godsend.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Jumping on the sick!Shiro bandwagon here. Hope I did them some justice! 
> 
> (crossposted to tumblr)

Shiro awakens with a jolt.

This in itself is not unusual—it’s the same old heart racing, muscle tensing, stomach clenching feeling he often wakes with following a nightmare.

In addition to the sleep loss, he’s found the most frustrating thing is that he rarely remembers anything that happens in them. Flashes of images too fleeting to process, bits and pieces of dialogue with no context. Hell, he isn’t even sure if any of it is _real_ , or whether it might just be his damaged memory conjuring up what he _thinks_ could have happened.

Maybe it’s better this way. At least now he only recalls a few of the—how many?—creatures that have died at his own hands. He knows that somewhere, deep within his psyche, lingers the memory of their faces, their screams, the scent of blood—some of it his, most of it not—as the crowd cheers not quite loud enough to cover up the final death rattle, the—

His thoughts stop short at the sensation of his metal hand pressing tightly to his mouth. Then he abruptly become aware of the awful churning sensation in his stomach, not at all fading like the post-dream nausea he’s used to. He _knows_ he’s safe, it’s all in the past, he’s in his room in the castle now, so why—

His stomach does an awful flip, and a tiny burp escapes his lips before he can stop it.

_Quiznak._

He’s up and struggling from the confines of his bedsheets in a heartbeat, feet pounding down the hallway in a rush to reach the shared bathroom. His only thought is a panicked, _please don’t throw up please not yet not yet not yet not—_

His knees hit the floor in front of the toilet with such force that it would have been painful, were his thoughts anywhere else. He doesn’t have the luxury of free thought at the moment as a gag brings up a burning splash of stomach acid. The sour taste is enough to rock his frame with another heave, ejecting a mess of partially-digested Altean food into the bowl. Strands of greenish goo hang from his lips, and he doesn’t have enough time to draw in a breath before the process repeats itself.  
  
He hovers over the bowl anxiously for a few more moments before cautiously sitting back on his heels. He pulls in a slow breath through his nose, ignoring the underlying threat of nausea as he puffs his cheeks to release it through his mouth.

Having time to finally take stock of himself, Shiro comes to the conclusion that this may be more than just a bad nightmare. While the immediate threat of vomit has passed, the bubbling, queasy feeling in his belly remains. He’s also _freezing_ , shivering all over, and drenched in sweat. Not a pleasant combination on top of how exhausted he feels.

He wonders if Alteans have an equivalent to the flu.

Whatever it is, he knows he doesn’t want to spend the rest of the night on the cold bathroom floor, so it’s with great effort that he forces his aching body upright, wobbling a little on his feet as he flushes the toilet and splashes his face with water at the sink.

He has no idea what time it is as he makes his stumbling way down the hall, but the castle lights are still dimmed, which means everyone should still be asleep. Good. Hopefully he can sleep this off, and with an uneventful day planned for tomorrow, he won’t have to worry himself or any of the others with something as trivial as— 

“Shiro?”

_Double quiznak._

He turns around to see Pidge, in her pajamas and carrying a wrench. The door to her room slides silently shut, all of her attention on the unexpected encounter.

Shiro tries to straighten his back and maintain his usual demeanor. If his, “What are you doing up?” seems a little sterner than usual, nobody ought to know the difference.

Except Pidge clearly _does_ , as she takes a few steps toward him. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get some work done,” she answers evenly. “Why are _you_ up?”

“Uh…” the sound slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. Great. Whatever he says next is going to be _real_ convincing now. “I just…needed the bathroom,” he finishes lamely. It isn’t a _lie_ exactly, just a truth missing part of the necessary information.

She’s still scrutinizing him—and while Pidge on her own isn’t _usually_ the most imposing paladin, at this moment he can’t think of anyone who terrifies him more.

“You don’t look so good,” her eyebrows furrow in an expression of deep thought and concern. “You’re all sweaty. And you’re shaking.”

_Quiznak, quiznak, quiznak._

“I’m alright,” he tries to assure her, but she is having none of it.

“C’mere,” she orders, and all of his leaderly authority flies right out the window. “Lean down a little.”

He knows where she’s going with this, but doesn’t have the energy or willpower to do anything but obey. Heck, maybe Pidge even knows some secret space cure he’s never heard of before. It’s wishful thinking of course, but the coolness of her hand as it makes contact with his overheated forehead feels so good he almost doesn’t care about the outcome.

She pulls away all too soon, her face now full of nothing but concern. “Shiro!” she exclaims, “You’re burning up!”

He sighs, shrugs, then gives in and nods. “I know. I’m probably contagious, so you should really—”

She shakes her head vehemently, cutting him off. “ _You_ should really get back to bed. Here, I’ll help you.” And with that, she’s pulling his arm over her shoulders as if he _isn’t_ twice her weight.

“Pidge, you don’t—” 

“But I do,” she pulls him along, trying to steady him when he falters a little. They make it to his room relatively unscathed, and Shiro has to admit he’s thankful to see his bed again. 

She pulls the sheets and blankets up over him and gently smoothes out the creases. It’s a little embarrassing to be taken care of by someone much younger than himself, but he knows Pidge well enough to understand that she feels uneasy just sitting around. They’re similar in that respect. If there’s something that _can_ be done to improve a situation, she feels duty-bound to do it. Waiting idly is a foreign concept.

He resolves to be honest with her, both because it’s the right thing to do and because she’ll be distressed if she misses anything vital.

It’s easier said than done, though, when she asks about the rest of his symptoms. He _hates_ throwing up, hates the loss of control, how the anticipation and anxiety builds before the act itself. But he promised, so he tells her everything.

“Aw, Shiro, I’m sorry you’re feeling so cruddy,” she empathizes. “It probably isn’t food poisoning, since we all ate the same thing, but maybe a space bug?” she pulls a face. “At least your symptoms are pretty normal, and you’re not growing a second head or anything…” she glances around the room, but comes up empty. “I wanted to knock on wood, since I said that...” 

Despite himself, Shiro laughs. It hurts his pounding head, but the smile it draws out of Pidge is worth it. 

She leaves the room for a few minutes, then returns with a damp towel and a cleaning bucket. “Y’know, in case you…”

He knows very well what it’s for.

The cloth, she folds neatly and places on his forehead. It’s relaxing, and it doesn’t take much time for him to drift. Drowsily, he hears, “I’m gonna stay here in case you need anything,” and feels the end of his bed dip, but he doesn’t have the strength left in him to argue.

He sleeps.

* * *

He wakes up in a _blind panic._

He has barely enough time to locate the bucket before a meager slosh of bile splatters into its depths. He inhales, exhales, and dry heaves. Once, twice, three times is the charm, his back arching painfully with each one. It probably takes less than a minute before it’s over, but his perception of time is certain it’s more like _hours._

Another moment passes before he realizes there’s someone rubbing his back. His brain makes the connection and realizes it must be Pidge. A sudden wave of guilt washes over him when he thinks about how much sleep she’s losing on account of him.

“You’re thinking too loud,” she complains as the silence lingers.

She’s _good._

Not missing a beat, her next question is, “How are you feeling?”

“A little better,” it’s the truth. The nausea has mostly settled, and the rest of him feels pretty much the same as it did before.

“Good,” she seems satisfied with his answer. “Rinse your mouth out,” she offers him a cup of water—when had she gotten that? Excellent foresight, regardless.

He rinses and spits a couple times before the taste becomes tolerable. Then she offers him a tissue, which he is horrified to find he desperately needs, mumbling, “Sorry,” behind the crumpled paper as he blows his nose and tries to preserve some measure of dignity.

She snorts.

It doesn’t take long before she’s tucking him back in, replacing the lukewarm cloth with another cool one. They make idle small talk for a while, mostly so Shiro can take a few minutes to calm his racing heart, before falling into a comfortable silence.

Right on the edge of consciousness, he feels the press of cool lips to his temple, then the light jostle of Pidge settling in for the long haul again. As he drifts off this time, her presence at the foot of the bed is nothing but a comfort.

* * *

 

When he wakes the next morning, he feels a _million_ times better. Not perfect, but the worst definitely seems to be over. He sits up and stretches, testing out his newfound wellness.

Pidge is gone, unsurprisingly, and he hopes she’d managed to get some rest of her own last night.

Without a moment to lose, he prepares himself for the day and makes the trip to meet everyone for breakfast. But the though of _breakfast_ is kind of _…_ maybe he’ll just have some juice.

He’s met with a raucous greeting from Lance and Hunk, a nod from Keith, and smiles from Allura and Coran. Pidge, noticeably, is missing from the table.

Before he has a chance to say anything, Allura ushers him to sit, before presenting him with a bowl containing…something that resembles human crackers far more than any Altean food he’s ever seen.

He looks up for an explanation, but she only winks.

“How did you…?” 

Her smile grows. “Well, to use the human phrase, _‘a little birdie told me…’_ ”


End file.
